I soften my voice. “I’m sorry.”
“No. You are correct.”
“I wasn’t blaming you.”
“I know.”
“I don’t think you do.”
He looks down at me then, rain streaking over his face, eyes dark and unguarded for the length of one breath. “If I return, Ron may use you against me.”
“He already is.”
“If I stay away?—”
“Then he still knows I matter to you.”
Silence opens between us, filled by rain, passing skiffs, and the low hum of the precinct sign.
Kauss says nothing.
That is answer enough.
I draw in a breath. “You said you wanted to repay me.”
“I will.”
“Then work it off.”
His brow shifts. “What?”
“The debt. The bail. The repairs. Work it off at the bakery.”
His entire body goes still.
I rush on before he can refuse. “I need help. The display case is dead, the window is boarded, the rear lock needs another brace, I lost inventory, and every creep in Halo now knows Sweet Tooth is a pressure point. You can lift things I can’t, fix things I don’t understand, scare off people who need scaring, and apparently perform hostile negotiations with furniture.”
“I am not a baker.”
“I’m not asking you to pipe frosting roses.”
“I have no customer service training.”
“That may be for the best. Customers could use realistic expectations.”
“I do not know how to work in a bakery.”
“You’ll learn.”
He stares at me like I have invited him to pilot a capital ship blindfolded through a nebula.
“I am not suitable,” he says.
“For what? Carrying flour sacks? Fixing hinges? Sitting at the counter looking grim and judgmental?”
“For your life.”
There it is again. The bleeding center under all that armor.
